


Something sweet for after dinner

by ICantBelieveItsNotCanon



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura is sick of their shit, Alternate Universe, As well they should, Expect Lotura and Sheith smut, F/F, F/M, In a world where chocolate is a matter of life and death, Lance is a YouTube beauty guru, Lotor loves glowsticks, M/M, They take chocolate very seriously guys, This is going to go up to E
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 14:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ICantBelieveItsNotCanon/pseuds/ICantBelieveItsNotCanon
Summary: Set in the high-stakes world of competitive chocolatiering, Allura is a first-time entrant into the Montandon Grand Prix, the most prestigious chocolate competition in this, or any other, reality. She’s sure she’d be a certain winner if it weren’t for Lotor, and his gang of chocolate-handling thugs, known to the press as ‘Lotor’s Lovelies.’Allura is determined to hate Lotor, but he appears to have other plans in mind.Meanwhile Keith is dealing with demons from his past, Shiro is dealing with his feelings for Keith, and Lance is dealing with his two-hour skincare regime.





	Something sweet for after dinner

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to [ animeXalchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeXalchemist/pseuds/animeXalchemist) for being my beta. You should check out her fics. She sure is one swell lady.

**International chocolatier contest begins today**

**_Teams from five of the most famous and respected global chocolateries will meet in Switzerland for the 231st Montandon Grand Prix._ **

_Renowned the worlds over as the pinnacle of the artform, the Montandon Cup is the most sought-after prize amongst chocolatiers, and this year the competition may be the most excitement the sleepy Graubünden region has seen in quite some time. For the first time in history the teams from both the Altèan and Gàlron  families - often considered the joint leaders of luxury confectionery - will not be headed by their respective directors: Alfor Altèan and Honerva Gàlron. Instead, in a stark departure from tradition, the two families will be led by their children and heirs to their chocolate empires. Although Allura Altèan, heir to the Altèan dynasty, has competed and won in a number of high-profile competitive chocolatiering events, for Lotor Gàlron - heir to the Gàlron  estate - this will be the first public appearance at an international competition._

_With more traditional teams staffed with craft-masters from Balmerón, and Olkari, and a surprise entrance from the mysterious Malmoraan team, this year’s competition is anyone’s game. Though the Montandon Grand Prix is renowned as a gentleman's sport, tensions will be running high throughout. Each round of the contest will be televised on SRF Zwei with dates and times printed overleaf. For our pre-competition analysis see pages 4-5, 7-9 and 10-15._

Allura folded the newspaper and placed it on the coffee table with altogether too much force. Her foot tapped an agitated beat as she crossed her arms firmly across her black apron and scowled. She was fuming. ‘Joint leaders’? It was probably very easy to be ‘joint leaders’ with someone when you cheated and swindled your way there! The way that hack reporter had framed it, it seemed like Gàlron had worked their way to the top with nothing but blood, sweat, and coco. But Allura knew that nothing could be further from the truth. Father and Honerva were bitter rivals and Father had drummed into her for as long as she could remember that the Gàlron had used every underhanded trick in the book to get to where they are now and that she must be on her guard at all times to head off any scheme they’d cook up in the competition. Allura breathed deeply, trying to put them out of her mind. The only way to win was to perform at her best, and she couldn’t do that with her head full of Gàlron.

She rose, smoothed her apron flat over her lilac blouse, letting her finger rest for a second on the embroidered white sugar mouse at the corner: it had been her signature concept since she was a child and it reminded her for a brief flash of her father, waiting at home tensley.  Pushing the thought from her mind, she walked over to the mirror to check for imperfection and, finding only one, tucked the last erant hair behind her ears. She was ready. She just hoped her team were too. Her eyes flicked through their snug greenroom, checking on them one by one.

Shiro was deep in the only other mirror trying to get his hair to do that bobtail flick at the front that he liked so much. He’d been here prompt at 6:00am in his chef whites, and never had much prep to do, having already over-prepared the night before. Dependable as always. Next to him Hunk was scouring over the trays he’d spent hours preparing, covered in tiny pots each holding colourings, flavourings, creams, and an assortment of different nuts. He was flicking through them with practiced lightening precision, adjusting spoon positions and ticking them all off against a checklist.

Keith was pacing nervously back and forth through a space barely big enough for three strides. His lips were sealed shut but his thoughts were plain: nervous as always. He had been in training the shortest out of the whole team and it showed, but his talent with the cocoa bean was undeniable. Lance was in a corner with his earphones jammed into his ears, karate chopping the air and mouthing to himself. It was his pre-work ritual to psych himself up and get in ‘the Lance zone’. No one knew what he was listening to and Allura didn’t care, providing Lance brought his A-Game. Unfocused, Lance was just about competent, but at his peak he had an almost unmatched flair.

Finally, in the centre of the room, Pidge and Coran were deep in frantic work over the team’s aerator. Coran had worked as a robotic engineer for thirteen years before coming to House Altèan as a team manager, and when Pidge had suggested some _very_ clever idea for decreasing aeration time without compromising bubble size he hadn’t been able to stop himself from diving in. Most chocolatiers learnt from the top down: starting with the arts of blending, piping, and flavour, and eventually learning the foundational molecular science when raw culinary talent was no longer enough. But Pidge was a true scientist. She had started - aged only thirteen - at the atomic level by synthesizing new flavours in her bedroom laboratory and only years later incorporating them into bonbons and truffles of previously unseen scope and ambition. Half the equipment the team used had been modified or upgraded by Pidge in an effort to find an edge that could win them the cup.

“How’s everything coming along over here?” Allura asked them, trying to force brightness into her voice, despite the nervous tendrils she could feel creeping up her spine. Coran spun on his heels as Pidge clicked the white plastic casing closed.

“We’re just about finished Princess,” he beamed, twitching his impeccably waxed mustache this way and that. “Number Five’s idea was quite brilliant!” ‘Princess’ was a name that the media had given her after a blue-ribbon winning performance at her first contest at age fourteen. It had followed her into adulthood and Allura had leant into it, playing up the more regal aspects of her personality for the cameras she often encountered in her life as a chocolate heiress. Most of her team used her nickname with varying levels of wry amusement, but Coran called her ‘Princess’ with complete sincerity.

“This should give us an edge if we can use it,” Pidge grinned her sunny grin, tinged with the slightest hint of mania.

“Though I wish we’d thought of it last night; we’ll be going in blind here,” Shiro had joined their huddle. “I believe you that it’ll work, but we need to remember we’re taking a calculated risk.” Allura was always glad to have Shiro as her Sous-chocolatier: he had the father-to-his-men quality that she sometimes found deficient in herself, but he always respected and listened to her. He was the best lieutenant she could ask for.

“Ok everyone, assemble on us,” Shiro called to the remaining three team members, gesturing to Lance that he should take out his ear buds.

“Alright everyone,” Allura locked eyes with them each in turn: Hunk, Lance, Keith, Shiro, Pidge, Coran. “I won’t lie to you, there’s a lot riding on this contest and the press are out there right now, speculating on how a team with members who've never competed before at an intergalactic level will fare in this competition.” She saw Hunk blush and Keith’s eyes turn momentarily downcast.

“They say we’re too young, or we’re too old,” Pidge - one of the youngest Montandon competitors ever at eighteen - gulped, and Coran turned slightly red.

“That some of our ideas are too new, too outrageous,” Lance grimaced. A few weeks earlier, a magazine profile had described his work as ‘new and outrageous’ which sounded good, until the article had gone on to list other work that had been ‘new and outrageous’: dynamite, the atom-bomb, flared trousers.

“...or that we’ve already missed our opportunity.” Shiro didn’t react, but Allura knew he understood what she was saying. ‘Missed opportunity’ was the press’ half-polite way of suggesting that Shrio, a once peerless chocolate-chef, might never reach his full potential since his arm had been replaced with a cybertronic prosthetic.

“They say that we’re not prepared to take on our families’ legacy,” she paused, allowing herself to feel the weight of the words, before turning her lips purposely up into a smile. “But _I_ believe that right now we are the strongest team Altèan has _ever_ put-together. All these teams have been doing chocolate the same way for deca-phoebs. The team we have now is inexperienced, but that just means we’re not used to doing things in the same bland way as everyone else. We are new and we are exciting, and -” she paused deliberately, looking over all six sets of eyes once more, pleased to find that they were learning in intensely, hanging on her every word, “- we are going to win!”

A chorus of “Yeah!”s and a “Whoop” from Lance bounced around the huddle, and they pulled a little closer to hear Allura’s next words.

“Keith, I need you to trust yourself. You’re good. You were put on this team for a reason. Hunk, don’t let yourself drown in minor details; everything you compose is a work of art, don’t let perfect be the enemy of the good. Pidge, people are going to underestimate you because you’re young; be sure to make them sorry. As for you Lance…” he grinned at her. “I don’t want to see any funny business today. Keep your powder dry until we know the lay of the land. You’re charming with the cameras, but play it smart. Find out what the judges want first, _then_ work that angle.” Lance’s solemn finger guns showed he understood.

“And Shiro? Thank you. You’re the best-damn second-in-command I could ask for.” Shiro tried to look modest, but he couldn’t help the small smile that formed on his lips. “Okay, are we all ready? Super secret team name on three.” To the public they were ‘Team Altèan’, but early on in their team training together Lance had assigned them with an internal team code name.

“Voltron!” they all cheered, hands slapped down in a tower in the centre of their huddle. Then Pidge picked up the aerator, Hunk assigned trays to Lance, Keith, Shiro and himself, Allura stood at the head of their pseudo-military formation, and they strode into the studio.

Three of the other teams were already present, and Allura didn’t even have to look to know that Team Gàlron were the ones missing. Probably hoping to make a classless attempt at a dramatic entrance. She met eyes with the team leaders at they passed each other, sharing a respectful nod as befit the entrants of this prestigious event.

The first she passed were Team Malmoraan. They were an imposing sight: six broad, serious chocolatiers pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with arms crossed. Each one of them was over six feet tall, and their matching black shirts and aprons cast them as an insurmountable wall of obsidian. Allura knew they were a wild-card in the competition; no one yet knew if they’d flame out in the first round or go all the way. Team Malmoraan were undeniably talented, but they lacked the time-earned prestige that the other teams held. Their team had formed in the underground chocolatier rings of Baltimore, banded together for protection against some of the larger coco triads. Their leader Kolivan had spent two years in prison for running cocoa nibs across the Canadian border when he was just 17. Their history was written all over their skin: the tip of a gang sign tattoo peeking out under a shirt, the unmistakable scalding scar from a home-made milk steamer.

Team Balmerón were a world away from the daunting Team Malmoraan. The family resemblance across their team was striking, from Rax - the hot headed younger brother, through Zeth - the serine matriarch of the team, to Shay - the young leader who stood front and center with a nervous smile. Though all distinct, they bore the same blocky jaws and muscular frames. The family were not in a regimented line, more huddled together conspiratorially preparing the last of their game plan. Instead of a polite head nod, Shay gave Allura a small wave which Allura returned warmly. Their family had exploded onto the forefront of the chocolate world with their signature confection: the Balmero Rocher. It had been an overnight success and had made them a household name worldswide and won them the cup that year. But that had been twenty years ago and whether they’d been trying or not, they’d yet to have a follow-up creation to match it.

Finally they passed the Olkari. They were the oldest team by far; none of their members were younger than fifty. They stood behind their countertop with hands clasped together, and a patient serenity all around them. Olkar was the finest Chocolaterie school in the universe, secreted away in a quiet village part way up the Jungfrau mountain here in Switzerland. Very few chocolatiers who had not trained or taught there were permitted entry; Allura had only visited once in her life. They sold nothing to the general public, but their students could go on to a career at any Chocolaterie in the world. In fact, Pidge herself had trained in their technical course, part of a cohort of five, and had been snapped up by Altèan as soon as she’d graduated. Pidge had not really interacted with the other teams, but she now beamed a grin to the Olkari and, hands fully occupied with her tray of ingredients, waggled her elbow in an approximation of a wave. One of the Olkari responded with a grace that only a woman of her age could achieve: a close of the eyes, a passive raised hand, and the slightest curve of her mouth. Pidge turned back to look straight ahead, emboldened at the thought of impressing her teacher on the highest of stages.

The Altèan team reached their table and began setting up. Shiro conducted everyone with precision, instructing the team to lay out their trays and equipment in exact positions. No one enjoyed Shiro’s constant drills and precision exercises, but you couldn’t argue with the results. Allura knew that these would be the last few low-stress moments for a few hours and she spent them looking around the stately room, trying to get the lay of the land, find anything that she might be able to turn to her advantage if needed.

The competition was always held in the grand hall of the Montandon family home. It was only in the last few years that it had been televised. The camera crew were jammed into the least regal end of the room, mounted cameras and cranes and booms, lighting umbrellas, and tables heaped with monitors, all stacked on top of a matted nest of cabling and manned by ceaselessly disgruntled techies. New for this year was the small cluster of people crushed into the furthest corner of the room: twenty or so members of the general public who had won a chance to watch the competition live. Debate had raged fiercely in the chocolate community over the last few months as to whether general admission to this esteemed event lowered the prestige of chocolatiering as a discipline. It had eventually been decided that there was no good material reason to keep them out, and that it was better for the industry as a whole for chocolate to appear a little less elitist. Allura was not happy about it; it was enough pressure to be making her Montandon Cup debut, without all these strangers eyeing her every move.

A laugh cut through her thoughts. Rich, dark, and perfectly smooth, it rolled through the room like a storm cloud seen on the distant horizon when you knew you were miles from shelter. It caught the attention of every competitor and they turned as one to face the source: The Gàlron. They had clearly snuck in while the rest of the teams were occupied, hoping to make a quintessentially showy entrance, and now stood in a tiered V formation. The four women of the team struck a menacing silhouette on either flank: Zethrid, Acxa, Ezor, and Narti. Allura could hear their names being whispered by the public. None of them were well known in the world of chocolate. People had expected Gnov, Ranveig, perhaps Ladnok, but out of all Team Gàlron  there was only one person who had competed before: Sendak. He towered behind Lotor, almost two heads taller than his already tall captain and filled the room with an aura of menace. Every part of his appearance was crafted to intimidate, his bright orange eyes gleamed out through a self-satisfied smirk and the whisk on the end of his prosthetic arm rotated slowly.

Before them all stood Lotor in a relaxed stance with open arms, almost as if he were welcoming them all to _his_ home. His sharp teeth were just visible past his cocksure smile, and his waist length hair was tied in a ponytail that must have taken hours to look so effortless. He wore a lavender shirt with sleeves rolled up and several buttons undone, and trousers that Allura thought were much too tight to allow for the full mobility needed to compete.

“Why’s everyone so quiet? There’s no need to stand on ceremony, we’re not the winners - yet.” Lotor laughed airly at his own joke.

“Not ever!” Lance shot back, not missing a beat, clearly having taken an immediate dislike. He glared across the room, trying to exude an aura of take-no-shit aggression that did not come wholly naturally

“Oh dear Princess, I hope your chocolate is less bitter than your teammates, or this won’t be any fun at all.” 

He didn’t even look at Lance, but met Allura’s eyes with an electric ferocity. He had been attention grabbing when he’d first walked in, but now - focused solely on Allura - Lotor’s energy took on a new quality: darkly vibrant, fierce, _hungry_. She knew she had to respond to his first devious gambit; he was trying to get into her head and she was not prepared to concede an inch of it.

“And I hope _your_ chocolate is a little less manufactured than your image. Not that my hopes are especially high.”

His eyes widened in surprise and for a moment he was silent. Allura was just about to allow herself to feel victorious, when his lips curled upwards into a smile. His eyes flashed bright like a fire in a gust of wind. He felt dangerous.

Completely oblivious to the fresh heat rolling off Lotor, Lance broke the silence.

“Yea! Whooo! Take that Team Lotor!” he whooped, finger guns shooting in rapid-fire, “Or should I say ‘will be the first to go-tor!’ ”

“Hey! Nobody speaks to The Boss like that!” barked Zethid, puffing up her chest and rolling up the white-sleeves of her shirt.  
  
“No, no, Zethird. It’s all right. Flawless presentation looks manufactured until you find it’s impossible to imitate.”

“But Boss!” Zethrid said indignantly, not fully understanding what he’d just said. He placed a hand gently but firmly on Zethrid’s chest, holding her back.

“Chocolatiering is an art, not a battle. Who is truly the superior chocolatier will only become clear when it is melting in our mouths.”

Allura didn’t like the way he said that. She didn’t like anything about him. She didn’t think she’d ever come to dislike anyone so hard and so fast. Everything from his razor sharp tongue to his affected easy poise was offensive to her.

“It is as my mother once so famously said - the proof is in the pudding.”

And then he winked at her. A wink that tipped Allura from strong dislike into deep abhorrence. She would beat this preening, unabashed nuisance and wipe the smirk from his lips.

“I look forward to seeing what you produce in the competition, Team Altèan.” He addressed the whole team but once again he looked only at her.

“You are of course aware that there is more than one team competing, Team Gàlron?” a polite but crisp voice called across, breaking the tension.

Hearing the voice of Ryner, the leader of Team Olkari, Lotor tore his eyes away from Allura, spinning on his heel to face the new speaker.

“Oh my dear Ryner! How dreadfully rude of me to neglect you. Please, I hope you can forgive me. I was actually just talking to Sendak here earlier today about having you join my Lovelies.”

She rolled her eyes, but replied with patient amusement.  
  
“Your Lovelies? I hope you’re not looking to win this contest with flattery, or I believe you will find yourself sorely put out.”

Lotor gasped in mock consternation.

“Perish the thought! Lotor’s Lovelies is simply the name that _some_ people have chosen to give to my team.” Having read every scrap of information she could find about Lotor in preparation for the contest, Allura was absolutely positive that this was a name Lotor had chosen himself.

He continued, “It reflects their impeccable attention to detail in both their chocolate making and their personal style. Which is of course why I thought you’d fit right in Captain Ryner. Not only are you head of the most famous chocolatiering school in the universe, but you brought cowls back into the mainstream with your trademark cashmere ensemble.” He took her hand seriously, “And I therefore have to thank you not only as a chocolatier, but also someone with an extensive winter-wardrobe and hair for whom hats have always been a fashion _don’t_.”

The Olkari chef grinned wryly, “Well you are very kind young man, but I am afraid your ‘Lovelies’ will have to do without.”

Allura turned her back to Lotor and his ‘Lovelies’ before she had to suffer his undoubtedly smug reply, and her eyes were at once drawn to Keith. The colour had drained from his already pale face: he was gripping a wooden spoon in a white-knuckle fist, and his eyes were fixed in a deer-in-the-headlights stare directly at Sendak.

“Keith? Are you okay?” Shiro had noticed the change in Keith too and reached out a reassuring hand to his shoulder. In a split second the spell was broken and Keith was back in the room. He spun around, obliviously pulling himself out of the path of Shiro’s hand.

“I’m fine, let’s just focus on the competition.”

“Okay everyone!” a tired looking woman in black trousers and polo shirt called out across the room. Her eyes never left her clipboard as she continued, “Bii-Boh-Bi will be coming round each table, doing talking heads, getting soundbites and idents, etcetera. Then we’ve got the opening ceremony. After that you’ve got a fifteen minute break before we start the first round.”

Allura tried not to let the grimace in her chest reach her face. Benjamin Bii-Boh-Bi was an unavoidable fixture of the competitive chocolate scene. Anywhere there was a chocolate competition you could expect to find the hyperactive over familiarity of Benjamin Bii-Boh-Bi. Allura didn’t dislike the man, he had an odd charm that made that impossible, she simply struggled to navigate his thick accent and rapid fire interview style. Try as she might she could not keep up and always came off confused and faltering as she tried to parse what it was he’d just said. A quick look of understanding passed between her and Lance. They had agreed ahead of time that Allura would answer the first few questions before Lance, who adored the spotlight, would jump in front of her to handle the bulk of the interview.

It was their bad luck that they were first in the line of tables, and Allura braced herself as she saw the stick thin figure of Benjamin Bii-Boh-Bi careening towards them, arms flailing and evening suit still somehow immaculate despite the turbulence.

Allura breathed in deeply, bracing herself for what was to come, thanking the heavens that she had Lance next to her. She would need to be charming, witty, she would need to be -

“Oh my God, it can’t be! Bii-Boh-Bi? _The_ Bii-Boh-Bi?”

Allura’s head snapped round, but she needn’t have acted so hastily; a voice that smug could only have belonged to one man.

“Lotor?” Lance said in shock. “Why’s he coming over here? What’s he doing? We’re supposed to be first. What should we do?”

Allura stared for a moment, trying to think about what to do, but before she could formulate a plan Lotor took Bii-Boh-Bi by the arm and started to lead him away towards the Gàlron table. Bii-Boh-Bi was talking too quickly and quietly for her to understand, but she could hear Lotor perfectly clearly.

“Bii-Boh-Bi! I can’t believe that we’re only just meeting!” Allura couldn’t hear what the thin man had replied, but she saw Lotor throw his head backwards in laugher and reply, “Oh what a coincidence! Everyone has always been telling me that _I_ have to meet _you_!” Bii-Boh-Bi’s head bobbed as he replied, and she saw Lotor’s eyes flash in victory, before he smiled, “I could never call you Benjamin! Could I? Oh well, go on then… Benjamin.”

She could see Bii-Boh-Bi smiling and laughing, letting Lotor’s voice, sweet as honey, trickle flattery over him. Allura had to act fast; she needed damage control. She turned to Lance: “I think you’d better get over there.”

Lance nodded, giving a small salute, before marching over.

“Benjamin, listen I know I’m worth it, but I just won’t use name-brand shampoo, no ma—”

“Hey Bii-Boh-Bi, long time not see–” Lance interjected, cutting off Lotor mid-sentence.

Allura saw Bii-Boh-Bi’s head turn, but before Lance could say anything Lotor started to speak once again.

“Lance, wasn’t it? Perhaps you can help us. Benjamin and I were just talking about how we keep our hair camera-ready. Benjamin here obviously uses L'Oréal,” Allura recalled that Bii-Boh-Bi was currently the face of the ‘L'Oréal, Experience!’ range. He could be seen on billboards and TV ads in his iconic Calvin Klein suit telling women and men around the galaxy that it was his confidence in his hairs that gave him confidence in his presenting. “But my hair is so thick and I absolutely cannot be convinced to use any high-street brand. You seem like an expert in the subject, what do you think?”

Lance did consider himself an expert on the subject, and even had a steadily growing YouTube and Instagram beauty brand. His skin, light-brown and flawless, was his greatest accomplishment. But he was also very proud of his hair, which Allura could hear him now describing to Lotor and Bii-Boh-Bi as “chestnut brown and silky smooth. Stronger and shinier than a horse’s.”

“Please Lance, don’t keep us in suspense any longer. What is your secret?” Lotor leaned in closer, in a way that seemed almost genuine, but Allura noted the slight upturn of his eyebrow and the way that his eyes kept glancing upwards, too quickly for her to discern what he was looking at. Whatever his plan was, it seemed like it was going well.

“Gentlemen, sit down,” Lance gestured widely, although there was nowhere to sit, around the crowded kitchen-counters. “I’m about to change your lives.”

Allura sighed. Lance was meant to undermine Lotor, not give him hair-care tips. Grumbling, she slumped on the desk, and watched as the scene played out. It wasn’t a total disaster, Lance was charming, and Bii-Boh-Bi was obviously enjoying himself. Still something didn’t sit quite right with her. It was only after Lance made his way back to her - his eyes half-lidded, smirking at a ‘job well done’ - and she heard Lotor segway the conversation seamlessly back to his unimpeachable skill as a chocolatier, that she realised what he had done.

There were only five-minutes left on the clock before Monsieur Clearday Montandon  - the owner of the Montandon mansion - gave his opening speech, and Lotor’s team would be the only one caught on camera talking about chocolate and would therefore be the only one to feature on the pre-roll promo clips. It would have no bearing on the contest, but it did mean the first face that anyone watching on TV would see that evening would be Lotor’s.

She looked over bitterly. One by one Lotor was now introducing a pleased and malleable Bii-Boh-Bi to the rest of his teammates, going into rich, florid detail about each member and what made them master chocolatiers, guiding Bii-Boh-Bi ’s questions masterfully so that each one of them was able to answer charmingly and fluidly, with sentences that were obviously pre-prepared.

“Thirty seconds!” called a voice from the wings, and Bii-Boh-Bi turned to Lotor and said something inaudible, which Allura could only assume would be his last question.

Whatever it was, it put a gleeful smile upon Lotor’s lips.

“Which member of Team Gàlron is the ace?” he purred, learning forward towards the cameraman, “Why none of us.” Bii-Boh-Bi gasped theatrically. Allura rolled her eyes. “Because every member of Team Gàlron is an ace.”

“Fifteen seconds, Monsieur Clearday is moving.”

Bii-Boh-Bi shook the hand of each Team Gàlron member, before whisking himself away to stand with the techies and await Monsieur Clearday’s entrance. A hush fell over the room, as each team settled into order at their stations, hands clasped behind backs and heads held high. Stillness filled the room for the first time that day. All that could be heard was the faint squeaking of shoes and a single muffled cough. Finally the lumbering shape of Monsieur Clearday shuffled into the hall.

He cut a deeply unimpressive figure, his tatty beige smoking jacket hung limp in some places, tight in others. His dark-ringed eyes spoke of a man who stayed up watching the cooking channel far too late. Allura though he might have been wearing slippers, but they were hidden from view as he reached his podium.

“Esteemed guests, I had hoped to begin this most auspicious of days with a twenty-six person marching band. I had spent weeks talking to them, making sure they were completely aware of the date. I left nothing to chance. But here we all are, at the opening ceremony, and where are they?” Monsieur Clearday’s lack of preparation, and subsequent public excuses, were as much a fixture of the contest as anything else. A few years ago he had actually succeeded in booking a close-up table magician and he had seemed the most shocked out of anyone that he’d managed to pull it off.

“I sent them multiple faxes, the cheque was signed and in the post weeks ago, but where are they? They knew it was important, but they’ve let us all down.” Monsieur Clearday sighed, shoulders slumping and dragging the mood of the room down by several notches. “But, this is the Montandon cup, we did not stop for the Blitz, and we will not be stopped by this. So without further ado, let the ceremony begin!”  
  
A formal wave of applause broke through the room, but Clearday’s malaise was impenetrable, “And here is where the trumpets would go announcing the final section of the opening ceremony. But I guess, if they’re not here, I’ll have to do it myself. Would the team leaders please step forward for the forging of the Montandon Seal.”

In the centre of the room stood a raised circular dais containing the mould of the Montandon seal. Allura reached towards the small cauldron of bubbling hot Altèan chocolate that had been set on the table long before they’d come in. She gripped the long wooden handle, raised it slowly from its warming tripod, and walked in elegant, purposeful strides towards the front of the hall. The other team captains met her one by one on her long walk, each of them coalescing into a solemn vanguard of chocolate bearers marching shoulder to shoulder towards the gilded chocolate mould before them.

As they drew level with it they split apart once more, moving round to stand at five equally spaced dimples in the gleaming surface. Alura met each competitor's eyes in turn, and noted with pleasure that something had finally wiped the smirk from pretty-boy’s face: even Lotor paid the Montandon Grand Prix opening ceremony the reverence it was owed. Monsieur Clearday’s voice called out with a previously unheard clarity, speaking words of power that had been heard at every Montandon Cup since the first:

“The wise stand back from the fire, fools are burned on the pyre. The chocolatier becomes one with the beans, this divides paupers and queens.”

Allura poured. As her father had poured before her, and his mother, back nineteen generations of master chocolatiers. The stream of melted chocolate was thin at first, then thickened as she angled her cauldron further, focusing intently on maintaining an even pour. The chocolate bled down the channel carved in the mould’s surface, inching its way to the center, seeming to brighten in its specular radiance against the polished copper. She dared not glance up at the other team leaders, so intent was she in perfecting this first test of her chocolate skill. Too slow and the chocolate would solidify before it reached the central mould, too fast and it would spill over the thin channels, making an inelegant mess. Pouring was one of the first skills a chocolatier learned, but was one of the hardest to master.

At last, her crawling flow of chocolate crested the final dip, and flowed into the ornate crest set into the center of the table. It spread, mixing and melding with the chocolate on either side poured by the rival teams. A steady torrent flowed from each of the five corners filling the filigree pattern with thick, dark chocolate. You could still make out the divisions quite clearly where one teams’ chocolate met another making an imperfect weld. She scowled internally at the thought that Lotor - stood directly to her right - had his chocolate pressed so tightly against hers, that it felt almost invasive; she knew it was ridiculous but she felt it all the same.

Her flow broke for a second, sputtered, then halted all together. Her cauldron exhausted, she laid it on the table and watched her last remaining chocolate diminish into a trickle. The mould was filled.

“So we forge the crest from the chocolate of each great chocolatier, that we might never again know the division of the chocolate war.” Clearday called out, “So, as it has always been, the victor shall pull the crest from the mould, and break it once more that we all might share in its joyous flavours.”

A cheer rose up from all in the room, a single glorious shout bourn by everyone there, each proclaiming their love of the craft and the competition.

And at that, the Montandon Cup had officially begun.

 

_End of chapter one_

**Author's Note:**

> AN: All the cast who were aliens in the original are still aliens. This is set in an alternate universe where humans and aliens made contact thousands of years ago, but because chocolate is an Earth delicacy, all the heavy-hitters in the chocolate world migrated to Earth a long time ago. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comment section below!


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